Forgotten Gods Meadery A Response
This morning I woke to a blunt comment on a Facebook post announcing that Forgotten Gods Meadery will serve as the local mead hall at the River Valley Viking Festival. The comment read, “What a sorry title, Forgotten Gods.” My first thought was simply, what do you mean sorry. I’m new to Facebook and was told never to start a debate in the comments, so I let it sit. But the question stuck with me, and it’s worth answering here with a little more care.
Why the Name Matters
Forgotten Gods might sound mournful if you only hear the words. But for me it is an act of remembering. Popular culture has resurrected a few names—Thor and Odin—largely because of blockbuster films. Those portrayals brought them back into the public eye, but they are only two faces in a much larger tapestry. The Norse tradition alone includes dozens of named deities, and when you widen the lens to other Indo‑European traditions the list grows even larger. The Celtic world, for example, preserves hundreds of named gods and goddesses, many of them local, many of them nearly lost to time.
When I named the meadery I wasn’t trying to be tragic. I wanted to honor the breadth of human devotion and imagination that once filled fields, springs, and hearths. These were personalities people turned to in times of harvest and hardship, in moments of celebration and mourning. To call them forgotten is not to condemn them but to acknowledge a gap I want to help close.
What I’m Trying to Do
I love old things and old stories. I love the way a single name can open a door to a whole world of ritual, craft, and meaning. Forgotten Gods Meadery is my small attempt to shine a light on those worlds. I don’t pick sides between Norse, Celtic, Roman, or Greek. I don’t argue whether a god is “real” or “myth.” What matters to me is that these figures once mattered to people, and their stories still have something to teach us.
Making mead is part of that work. Mead is one of the oldest alcoholic beverages on the planet. Brewing it connects me to the same basic human acts that inspired those old stories: gathering, fermenting, sharing, and telling tales around a fire. When you taste a cup of mead, you’re tasting a craft that has threaded through centuries of human life. That feels like a fitting way to honor gods who were once part of everyday existence.
What I Hope You Find Here
If a name on a bottle or a sign sparks curiosity, that is a victory. I want people to feel that small, bright thrill you get when you find something you thought was lost in an old trunk. Maybe you’ll read about a goddess and feel a strange recognition. Maybe a story will resonate with a memory or a value you hold. That spark of joy is what I hope to kindle.
I also want to be clear about tone. Forgotten is not a lament so much as an invitation. It is an invitation to rediscover, to learn, and to appreciate the diversity of human belief and creativity. It is a reminder that history is full of voices, many of them local and quiet, and that remembering can be an act of care.
Closing
So yes, the gods were forgotten in many ways. But that forgetting is not final. Through conversation, research, craft, and community gatherings like the River Valley Viking Festival, we can bring pieces of those stories back into the light. I make mead because I love the craft and because it feels like a proper way to honor the past. If the name Forgotten Gods gives someone pause, I hope it also gives them a reason to look closer and to feel that spark of discovery for themselves.